


Just a good day's fishing

by The Drunken Whaler (Nomlakie)



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Havelock is not good at being a dad, Havelocks don't like dealing with feelings apparently, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Yes I used that terrible limerick, but he is trying, i love it too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23978506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomlakie/pseuds/The%20Drunken%20Whaler
Summary: Havelock and his son go fishing, and conversation is attempted.
Kudos: 3





	Just a good day's fishing

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble I wrote, purely to indulge myself in Dadlock and Sonlock interactions. I love this grumpy old man and his grumpy small son. ;u;

The sun's rays cut through the clouds that afternoon, in a meagre attempt to stop any potential overcast from brewing. Sam's little boat, normally used to transport contraband and assassin alike around the river, had instead been commandeered by the old Admiral and his comparatively young son for a spot of fishing. Beside the motor, Jamie was sat in his usual getup, the baby blue tank top and whalers britches he'd been wearing since the day he'd arrived at the pub, and doubtless Lydia had hounded him about getting cleaned more than enough times to make the poor lad's head spin. Across from him, Havelock's bulky frame was balanced only by the heavy weight of the motor; an old tank top stretched across the firm musculature of the Admiral's chest in place of his typically proud uniform, the garment once having been white before years of wear had rendered it a faded shade of its former brilliance. The two of them sat in silence as their lines bobbed in the water, with only their attention being hooked. A silence that was thick with awkward tension, the kind often found at family gatherings when two people with little in common were left alone in a room for an extended length of time. Behind them, the crumbling tower watched over the river, a stone monolith staring them down.

Havelock was the first to speak, after what felt like hours of nothing but the gentle lap of the river against the boat's hull.

"Uhh…" Always a fantastic way to start a conversation, Farley was known for his wordsmithing as much as Pendleton was his sobriety, "You got a job, boy?" The question earned him a suspicious squint from the lad, one brow raised slightly higher than the other in the child's scowl; an expression as perpetual as his own, clearly.

"Yea." Was the short reply, never looking away from his father.

"What is it?"

"'m a fish butcher."

Havelock hummed slightly. So Jamie was used to guts and gristle, he should have expected that. His mother had been just as hardy. "You like it?"

A shrug was one half of the answer, the other being a non-committal "Eh."

"'Eh'?"

"Eh."

"And that means?"

"Wouldn't hesitate for somethin' better."

"Ah. I see."

Farley shifted slightly as Jamie's gaze went back to the fishing rod in his hand, and he took a short sigh of breath before continuing, "You like it at the pub?"

"F' the most part," the boy replied, a gloved hand coming up to scratch an itch in his hair, Havelock made a mental note to have Jamie checked for lice later, "the landlady keeps botherin' me, though."

"'tis in Lydia's nature, boy. She hounds us all." The Admiral punctuated his statement with a huff. "And  _ I'm _ the landlord."

There was something of a dull murmur from Havelock's side, and he turned to glare at the child, the motion rocking the boat slightly before he decided whatever clever remark Jamie had wasn't worth his anger. Young boys had no filter, after all. "That being said… you had your first drink yet, boy?"

"Jus' beer. Some swill down at the Prancin' Pony. Tasted more like piss."

"I'm not going to ask how you know that…" Jamie barked a laugh at his father's expense, and Havelock couldn't help feeling a tug at the corner of his lips.

Once again, silence settled between them. However, it didn't last anywhere near as long as the first time, when an absent memory struck Havelock.

"Those lads you turned up with…"

"Hm?"

"They friends of yours?"

Jamie nodded, his eyes still trained on the line out in the water, brow knit with concentration; or maybe it was just always furrowed like that, he wouldn't have been surprised. "Tavish an' Michael."

"Ah," he rubbed at the scar on his cheek, "they good friends? You trust them?"

Once again, Jamie nodded, "with my life. Made a pact, we look out for each other."

"Damn sight more honorable than some men I know…" as far as he was aware, anyhow. Treavor was a nobleman, snobbish and proud; and Martin, an enigma he doubted he would ever unravel. "Any way you spend your time?"

"Aside from workin'?"

"Aside from workin'"

"I like engravin' bone."

Jamie's reply gave Havelock pause, and he tilted his head, despite never looking away from the bob of his lure out in the water, "bone engraving?"

"Yeah. S'good material to work with. Comes out nice if you buff it with fine grit."

"Not too unlike wood then. Better off buffing that with varnish, though."

The blond just shrugged, "bone's more readily available."

"Fair point."

It was while the two were discussing the constructive properties of bone to wood, that a mist had begun to creep in along the water's surface. And before long, a thick cloud of fog descended on the city of Dunwall, blanketing everything in dense white. The sun had ultimately failed in its battle against the clouds, getting obscured from view and the temperature dropped noticeably. Now trapped on the boat, Havelock peered around, noting how he couldn't see further than a couple meters ahead of him.

"Should head back to shore, this fog's rolled in quick."

"S'fine."

He glanced to the lad, a brow raised in confusion, "wha?"

"S'fine," the boy said again, "I like the fog, anyway."

This answer puzzled him. Fog was never a good thing out on the water, even in shallows. Surely Jamie must have known that too, and yet he continued to watch his fishing line as if nothing were amiss. The old man's question came out quizzical, "why?"

But Jamie did not respond. Perhaps he hadn't heard clearly, or maybe he didn't quite understand. Sometimes kids needed clarification, or so Callista had told him, once. "Why d'you like it?"

Again, no answer. Instead, the child's shoulders started to tense slightly, his spine beginning to bristle in response to the question; so he had heard, and was choosing not to answer, now Havelock was becoming agitated. "You ignoring me, boy? I asked you a question!" He snapped.

Jamie's answer was quiet, muted. Hushed, as if out of shame, but the way it dropped into the muffled silence of the fog was deafening.

"It lets me forget about land."

Seconds ticked by into minutes, and still the silence lingered. With the cold white walls all around them, Havelock felt boxed in and claustrophobic, desperate now to get back to the pub and maybe the safety of a glass of mulled whiskey. And yet, despite the anxiety gnawing at his skull, he couldn't find the words to say it. Of course, he could understand preferring the sea to soil, he'd've been a hypocrite to say otherwise. But something about the statement seemed off. It didn't seem  _ healthy _ , even to him. At last, the Admiral could take no more, the fog having almost strangled the question from him.

"What do you mean?"

"..."

"Why?"

"There's always stuff on land that reminds me of my ma."

"Why is that bad?" Havelock had never remembered Jamie's mother to be a cruel woman, so the idea that his son would not want to be reminded of her was strange. A cold chill shuddered down his back, perhaps he had been sorely wrong about her after all; or perhaps it was merely the cold moisture making his tank top damp and sticky.

Jamie was quiet again, for a long time, his eyes scanning the blank out ahead of him as he thought. Havelock swore he could almost see the gears turning in the boy's head.

"Last year, we had a kind of bad run in th' shop… didn't make as much as we'd hoped. Th' owner docked our pay some, said it was to 'maintain profit margins', or some crap like that. So when ma didn' have enough for both of us to get elixir rations, she gave hers to me. She… got sick not long after," now Havelock could feel his blood seethe. Anger at her life being put at risk, for the sake of money. Yet Jamie continued, "got worse an' worse over the weeks. She begged to be…" the lad paused, trying to find a word for it, "put outta her misery, before it got any worse. When there was still somethin' of her left. None of the Watch would help, so…"

Even as he trailed off, Havelock's grit teeth froze in place, and he looked over at the boy. All at once the boiling fury in Havelock's veins turned icy.

Jamie's expression was  _ wrong _ . Wrong for a child his age. His gaze stared off into the unknown distance beyond, the usual vibrant green Havelock once clearly remembered in his mother were now dull and empty. Dark circles lined the inner corners of his eye sockets, making them look sunken and ill; a look made worse by the weak knot in his brow. All the stoic confident anger that usually kept him scowling was gone, replaced instead with an expression of quiet, broken acceptance. Of haunted pain.

Havelock had seen that kind of look on men after the Insurrection, after witnessing the horrors of war. When they had come home after killing their first enemy on the battlefield or on the deck of his ship; when the first sight of spilt blood had them reeling. A look that looked wrong on grown men; seeing it on a child, his  _ own _ child, rattled him more than he could describe.

Silently, slowly, he reeled in his line. Nothing would be biting now with the fog in, anyway. As Jamie continued to stare off at his line, the man set about putting away his rod, tucking the tackle back into the box and setting the rod down on the floor of the little boat. Throughout it all, Jamie did not react. The duo sat in silence, unmoving, a single point of existence in a misty white void. Until eventually, Havelock plucked up the courage, and gently placed a large hand on Jamie's back. It was comically large, even against the boy, who was frequently mistaken for much older than he really was. But the motion did spur a reaction.

It was like a switch had been flipped, and just like that, Jamie seemed to be back on earth, back in Samuel's little boat with his father, a fishing rod in his hands waiting patiently for a bite. Now however, he did not care about the rod. Hesitating for a few seconds, the boy shuffled closer to the old man, until he was sat next to him and his comparatively smaller torso was pressed up against the other. And for once, Havelock couldn't find it in himself to insist on his personal space. Something in his chest insisted he hold the boy closer, even as he moved the arm that had snapped Jamie out of his stupor to wrap around his son's shoulders.

He felt so small like that, huddled up next to him like a baby bird in a storm.

They stayed like that for some time, huddled together in the cold moist air. Eventually, Havelock decided his old joints could take the chill no longer, and he nudged Jamie into motion.

"Come on, boy. Let's pack up, better catch in better weather."

"Aye…" came the boy's quiet murmur, followed by the gentle whirr of the line being reeled back in. Havelock was about to try and find his way again, when there came a sudden grunt of surprise, and then a small splash of something being fished out the river behind him. Turning back to look, his eyes quickly settled on the shiny glass bottle in Jamie's hands, the hook of his line affixed in the cork stopper.

"Huh. Somethin' innit," the boy mused as he peered through the glass. And then his deft little fingers worked at the cork as it squeaked free, coming out with a satisfying pop!

"What is it?"

"S'note, I think." It took some work, and a small bit of cursing, but soon Jamie had slipped the note free of its glassy prison, and unfurled the yellowing paper, the bottle left sat at his feet.

"What's it say?" At risk of upsetting the boat's balance, the Admiral leaned over to try and read over Jamie's shoulder, a motion which earned him a disgruntled glower from the boy as he shifted to stop Havelock from being able to do so.

"Uh… 'There once was a man from Morley,

who fancied a woman most sorely.

He gave her his cash, she gave him a rash,

and that's all, there isn't no More-ly.'"

It was childish. Childish, and crude, and utterly, utterly silly. But neither Havelock could help stifling a chuckle at the limerick. It was almost as if someone had been watching, had decided the tension needed to be broken, and sent something to do just that. If Farley had been a superstitious man, he might've just believed it. Whatever it was, it had been sorely needed.

Havelock's amusement, however, was short lived. As Jamie was putting his own rod away, the Admiral was becoming more and more aware that he could not tell which direction the pub was in anymore. Too much time had passed, and the boat had likely whirled around a bit since then, even if it was tethered to the spot.

"Pops."

Pops… the name confused him. Who was Pops?

"Pops."

Who was Jamie talking to?

"Pops!"

Havelock blinked owlishly, as it dawned on him.  _ He _ was Pops! "Yes?"

The lad rolled his eyes as he pointed in a direction, "pub's that way."

"Why're you so sure?"

The question prompted Jamie to point down at the water. "Used to fishin' in fog. Get lost, try to find out which way th' current goes. Pub's that way."

He squinted at the lad, but chose, against his better judgement, to follow his advice anyway; the look wasn't lost on the boy.

"Happens all the time at work."

"Someone needs to talk to your employer, then."

"'f you wanna talk sense into the ol' penny pincher, be my guest."

Havelock didn't get much chance to retaliate, as soon the familiar barricades of the makeshift bay were drifting past either side of them, and the stone of the dock was creeping into view. Instead, he chose to diplomatically ignore the smug grin on Jamie's face. He'd be damned if he was going to admit  _ that _ defeat. At the very least, they were both home safe, and Sam's boat none the worse for wear.

"You're getting damp into the pub!"

If he were a lesser man, Farley would have winced at the tone in which Lydia scolded them, as they both stood in the hallway leading to the dockyard. Wet clothes stuck to damp skin, and hair matted to foreheads, both of them looked a right mess. And the glare the housemaid was fixing them both was enough to make hounds cower.

"If you two keep standing around there with the door open, you're going to let mildew in! For the Abbey's sake, go upstairs and dry off! Before you leave a puddle!" Now Havelock was beginning to understand just where Jamie was coming from earlier in the afternoon. The woman was lucky he wasn't in a grouchy mood, as he stomped up the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor, Jamie following close behind him.

Ten or so minutes later found the two sitting in front of the stove in Havelock's room, neither having bothered to pull up chairs after stripping off the damp clothing that had been sticking to them. Tank tops and breeches were hung up to dry off, tea was being made on the stove, and Havelock was sitting on some pillows Jamie had decided to drag off the chair and the bed to make the warm spot a little more comfortable. With the door to his room closed, and the fog outside getting darker with the retreating daylight, the room had a cozy atmosphere. Little wonder, then, that Farley had turned to find Jamie was sat beside him, head resting on his knees and fast asleep. As gently as the bulky man could manage, he tugged Jamie over to settle against his side. And with his arm wrapped tightly around the child's body, the Admiral decided that the kid had the right idea after all, soon nodding off to sleep himself.


End file.
